girl with chocolate milk

I’m a fricking mess.  The fact that I walk around without inflicting serious bodily harm to myself is a miracle I will never understand.  I also will never understand why “minute rice” takes 15 minutes to make.

A little misleading don’t you think?

I try hard to be normal and not make a mess of things, but it doesn’t always work out that way.

cookies and milkTonight I curled up on the couch with a blanket, a glass of milk, and the most recent episode of Project Runway.  Okay, I also had a 100 calorie pack of Hostess cupcakes….or two packs.  Don’t judge.  Those packs are small.

My husband was in the other room, as he doesn’t like to watch Project Runway.  I think it’s because he hates my Tim Gunn impressions of “Make it work” and “Thank you Mood.”

Either that, or he gets annoyed when I yell “Sew bitches!” as the designers work on their looks.

I like to think I’m motivating them, and since I stood outside the tents at Fashion Week a few weeks ago, I feel a connection to them.

Tonight, I tried to slowly eat the cupcakes, but considering they’re the approximate size of a stick of gum, I went through the desserts quite quickly.

I downed my milk in an effort to convince my stomach I was full and not still craving more chocolaty goodness.

I then picked up the remote control to move it out of my way when I heard a splash.  What was that?

I looked down and saw I dropped the remote into my large glass of milk.  Oops!

water drop splashingHoping it wasn’t lactose intolerant, I quickly removed it from the glass.  And by “glass” I mean a free plastic cup from Shakespeare’s Pizza.

The first thing that crossed my mind, aside from the immediate question of whether I could still drink the milk. was my curiosity as to whether my husband heard the debacle.

If he came out and saw the mess I made, he would kill me.

My fear of death was magnified because I was already on the verge of being forbidden from eating or drinking outside the kitchen.

Honestly, I don’t know what the big deal was: the wine-stained couch cushion that precipitated the ban easily turned over and no one can even see the stain.

I froze in fear and listened for movement in the other room.  The sounds of my husband’s snores were a welcome relief, and I’ve never been so happy he falls asleep in 30 seconds.

After celebrating that my husband wouldn’t discover my mistake, I realized I needed to save the remote.  I was hopeful if it broke, I could blame it on him, although it would be a tough sell.

I’m such an easy explanation for anything broken or stained.

pouring milk into glassI needed to save the remote.  But how?

I used to be certified in CPR from my days of teaching aerobics, but the remote wouldn’t respond to chest compresions to the beat of Rhianna.  I needed another remedy.

I held it up and began shaking it.  Milk flew out of every button, landing all over me and the rug.

I wasn’t worried about the rug, as it was predominately covered with dog pee.  A top coat of curdled milk wouldn’t hurt anything.

I began pressing buttons to see if they worked, and was delighted to discover they did.  I wasn’t so happy to learn that in my frantic button pushing, I accidentally changed the language choice to Spanish.  Seriously?! 

Although I’ve recently started taking a French class, I wasn’t fluent in other languages and had no clue how to change it back to English.  Matt would figure out the new language choice was my doing.

close up of remoteI decided that frantic button pushing got me into this mess (along with my love of chocolate), so frantic button pushing would get me out.

Fortunately it worked, and I was able to change it back to English without purchasing anything on Pay Per View.  Or at least I hope so.

I’m not sure how I will explain the purchase of Klitty Litter on the cable bill.

I am currently airing the remote control out on the window sill and praying the neighborhood cat doesn’t sniff it out and try to break through the screen.  She’s really feisty.

I’m also trying to figure out what excuse to give if the remote doesn’t work tomorrow.

I’m keeping my fingers crossed he won’t read my blog and I can blame the broken remote on global warming or the bankers on Wall Street.

remote

couple on beachRecently, my husband and I stayed in for an evening. We are usually running around in different directions so we don’t get much time together.

Well, I’m not actually running.  If I was, I would have more toned thighs and wouldn’t get winded with stairs.

Even though we don’t have kids, our lives are somehow busy and we rarely get a night home together.

So, we decided to enjoy a night in and lounge on the couch together.  We stuffed our faces with Mexican food, so we knew we needed to relax and digest. I wanted him to “digest” on the other couch away from me…his digestion can smell.

As my DVR is shamefully embarrassing and I knew there was no way I could convince my husband to watch episodes of America’s Next Top Model, we agreed to find something on TV.

I gave my husband the remote (aren’t I generous?) and he began flipping channels.

We stumbled upon The World’s Strongest Man contest and couldn’t look away.  It was a train wreck…if a train crashed into another train filled with roided up douche bags who probably have mommy issues.

bicepThe guys were huge and looked angry, and hungry.  I grabbed a bag of chips and settled in to watch guys make asses of themselves.

If you don’t know about The World’s Strongest Man contest, it’s a competition where strong men (duh) lift ridiculous items in an effort to prove who is the manliest.  It’s ridiculous.

If a man wanted to prove his manliness, he could vacuum the house and fix me a vodka drink.  But I suppose that wouldn’t be nearly as interesting to watch as grown men getting hernias from lifting mobile homes.

The first competition was the whiskey barrel race.  Naturally, I was interested, as the race involved liquor.  Whiskey isn’t my drink of choice, but I’m a reasonable woman and decided not to be picky.

The object of the competition was to carry a rickshaw with 780 pounds of whiskey down a course and back.  I know, I know, you’re wondering if the whiskey was Jack Daniels or the generic stuff.  Me too.

Unfortunately, they never said, so this will remain a mystery forever.

barrelsThe men began the contest two at a time.  There was a barrel at the front of the rickshaw and one at the back.  One of the men ran down and back with the barrels as if they were empty.  I decided that would be the one I would root for, as any guy who can quickly deliver alcohol is a friend of mine.

Some of the other men struggled and didn’t find it quite so easy.  One of the men dropped the rickshaw and actually gave up in the middle of the course.

He then turned around and punched one of the barrels of whiskey.

I’m not sure if it was out of frustration, or if he was trying to break the barrel to allow the whiskey to flow out.

I liked that guy too (as I’m not opposed to using violence to obtain libations) , but since I don’t like quitters, I decided I couldn’t back him.

After the whiskey competition was completed,and the production crew most likely chugged those barrels, they moved on to the car dead lift contest.  Yes, you read correctly…car lifting.

sports car toyDon’t get me wrong, the car wasn’t a tricked out Range Rover with a douchey guy inside wearing a pinky ring (isn’t that who drives those?).  Rather, it was a Hyundai hatchback.

I’m not sure of the exact model, but since I recently drove a Hyundai as a rental car when we were in Naples, I felt like I was an expert on the Korean vehicle.

The men were required to lift the automobile and the trailer it was placed upon.  They didn’t say how heavy the car and trailer were, but if the car’s trunk was anything like mine, the hatchback was filled to the brim with old Us Weekly magazines and a sweatshirt two sizes too small.

The men began lifting, and immediately my husband chimed in.  He commented on the fact that it clearly wasn’t that difficult to lift the car, and he didn’t know why they were making such a big deal about it.  He then referenced the Kia Soul incident of Winter 2011.  (insert eye roll).

You see, at the beginning of 2011, we had a bad snow storm.  Since nothing keeps me from eating good food, we decided that even during a snow storm, we needed grub.

links on chainWe stuffed our faces and left the restaurant uncomfortably full.

At that time we noticed a Kia Soul stuck in the snow, and a woman trying to get it out.  My husband, ever the good Samaritan, got out and helped her with the vehicle.

So, when the car lift came on, he referenced the Kia Soul incident and reminded me his buff muscles could easily lift the car and a trailer.  Naturally.

Since I didn’t want to relive the incident, I dropped it…just like most of the men dropped the hatchbacks.  I have a feeling those cars will be sent to the rental place we used in Naples where they will be rented out smelling of sweat and BenGay.

The way Matt tells the story, he lifted the auto out of the snow with one hand, put it over his head and threw it to the other side of the street (and saved a baby from a burning building at the same time).

poms and megaphoneThe way I tell it (which is the way it happened), he pushed and fell in the snow, and eventually got it out with the assistance of the woman.

The last competition was the atlas stones contest.  This actually looked impossible (as if lifting a sedan was easy…well, if you ask my husband it is).

The atlas stones contest required the men to lift heavy stones and place them on top of pillars that got taller.  There were 5 stones each man had to place on pillars, and whomever got them there the fastest won.  The men were racing against time and racing against each other.

I’ve recently started working out with a trainer, so naturally, I thought I was an expert on all things related to lifting.  I began yelling at the contestants, pushing them to do better.

I was amazed at the profanity coming out of my mouth, and the number of times I called them the equivalent of a female cat.

man lifting worldI was rooting for the whiskey barrel guy, and he didn’t let me down.  I knew I could trust a guy who could hold his whiskey…literally.

My guy won the atlas stones contest, and was named the overall winner.  I was so proud!

As I watched his interview after the win, blood pouring out of his nose from overexertion, I wondered what made a man decide to participate in such a contest.  Was it a quest for recognition?  A wish to be strong?

Nope.  I’m pretty sure it was overcompensation for something else…something embarrassing…yup, that these men weren’t able to swim.